


Bullet in The Ribs, Love in His Heart

by ethanchristopher



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Declarations Of Love, Fluff, Gunshot Wounds, John Watson Loves Sherlock Holmes, Love Confessions, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mutual Pining, Sherlock Holmes Loves John Watson, Soft Sherlock Holmes, Tenderness, no beta we die like men, sort of canon compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 07:08:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29962758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ethanchristopher/pseuds/ethanchristopher
Summary: He was softening, falling harder with each passing moment of gazing into those intense eyes full of what John could only describe as desire.Being a good friend. That was what John Watson had promised himself he would do for Sherlock Holmes. So he would do whatever Sherlock needed him to do.———Sherlock gets himself into a spot of trouble and John tends to his wounds. Such a thing can lead to tender moments, as it seems.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 2
Kudos: 47





	Bullet in The Ribs, Love in His Heart

“You probably did something to deserve it, you bastard.”

John muttered frustrations, his brow furrowed with concern. Sherlock only held his tongue, lips in a thin line and pain evident on his features. The two men clamored up the steps to 221B with Sherlock’s arm slung around John for support, his other hand holding pressure on his ribs.

“You’re a lucky fool it didn’t hit anything important!” John barked as they reached the door, using the hand not wrapped around Sherlock to open it and pull them inside. He eased Sherlock down against his chair, pulling up a sturdier seat from the kitchen. He set it down and helped the man sit, rushing to get his medical supplies.

“Stop fussing, John. Like you said, I was lucky, I’ll be fine.” Sherlock spoke with his usual gravitas, but it lacked any sting. He clung to his own side, blood seeping through his jacket. Pity, he rather liked that one.

John returned to Sherlock’s side, kneeling down and placing his supplies on the floor to his right. With careful practice, he removed Sherlock’s jacket and set it aside, then began to unbutton the man’s shirt.

With a pained chuckled, Sherlock goaded, “Oh, John, at least take me to dinner first.”

“Smart words from the man with a bullet still in his ribs,” John retorted, albeit red in the face. Whether that was from frustration or embarrassment was Sherlock’s deduction. He continued with the buttons until the shirt was off, the wound on full display.

It wasn’t particularly grotesque or bloodied due to the pressure Sherlock had been placing on it. His tolerance was shrinking rapidly though, and as he removed the hand to allow John a better look he grimaced. John took over to clean the area. He worked in silence, focused on the task at hand. When it came time to remove the bullet, John gave pause.

“Sherlock, you’ll want to hold on to something.”

“Please, this isn’t my first run in with a bullet, go ahead.”

Against better judgement, John complied and began reaching for the bullet with a pair of forceps.

Glowering, Sherlock let out a dull grunt, his teeth clenched painfully. His hand flew out to John’s shoulder, opting to grab a fistful of shirt and squeeze it tightly. His other hand reached around to grip the back of the chair, sweat forming on his brow.

Attempting to work as quickly as possible while maintaining his careful mannerism, John knew Sherlock would be in immense pain until the wound was patched up. His forceps found the bullet and Sherlock gripped tighter still as John gently removed it. Once the bullet was free, he gave it a twice over to be certain there would be no debris left in the wound, checking Sherlock again before closing the wound and bandaging it as tightly as was comfortable.

Sherlock finally released his grip on John’s shirt, muttering an insincere apology about wrinkling the fabric. In truth, he had gone pink, whether from embarrassment of needing to hold onto John or from holding onto John at all was anyone’s guess.

“Thank you, John. You must know having a doctor so fervently tending to me is much appreciated. Besides, they would have asked too many questions had I gone to the hospital,” Sherlock blathered, only telling John what he already knew. He knew he was giving Sherlock better care (in some ways, perhaps minus the morphine) than the hospital would have with its forms and incessant questioning and involvement of police. John was providing a no-questions-asked service, certainly helping because he was a friend, certainly trying not to think about the very much romantic feelings he’d been harboring for the man for years of knowing him.

As John finished bandaging the wound and began putting away what supplies he didn’t need to clean, Sherlock closed his eyes, trying to take his mind off the pain. Always finding something in his mind palace to think of instead, John assumed. He was unaware that as he continued his methodical movements, putting away gauze and setting aside various medical instruments, Sherlock’s gaze would occasionally flit over the man, watching his shoulders stretch, longing to reach out and grasp the fabric on his arm again, use it to pull him close. To truly thank him for being his doctor, for being his friend, for putting up with his antics day in and day out.

Standing to take his supplies into the bathroom to clean them, John was stopped by the look in Sherlock’s face. It was pained, but not quite as it had been.

“John... Stay?” he whispered, perhaps softer than John had ever heard him speak before. Sherlock had a desperate plea in his eyes, begging John not to go. He was still too afraid to push John, too afraid of losing his best friend to reach forward and draw him close. So he took a smaller step, and simply asked him to stay.

“Erm... I’m only... Going to the bathroom to wash these,” John replied stupidly, dumbfounded at the man in front of him. Sherlock always did what he least expected and of all the things he could have done, John did not expect Sherlock to show John this side of him. Hole up in his room, maybe. Jump into another case or experiment, sure. But to lay himself bare, to show John such a vulnerable part of himself, it was almost too much for John to handle. He was softening, falling harder with each passing moment of gazing into those intense eyes full of what John could only describe as desire.

Being a good friend. That was what John Watson had promised himself he would do for Sherlock Holmes. So he would do whatever Sherlock needed him to do.

He set his things aside and knelt down in front of Sherlock, pressing a hand to his knee and letting his face slip into a gentle smile. He realized he hadn’t smiled since the text:  _ John_,  _ come at earliest convenience_.  _ Bullet between my sixth and seventh ribs_. John had left work immediately, raced to Sherlock to bring him home and take care of him. And truth be told, John was probably more panicked than the man who had been shot. Doctor though he was, Sherlock was his best friend. Love of his life, too. He couldn’t bear the thought of him being in such pain, let alone losing him.

“I’m not going anywhere, Sherlock,” he reassured.

“John...” Sherlock murmured, hand raised as if to touch the man’s face. John closed the gap, taking Sherlock’s hand gently and placing it on his cheek. The hand cupped his cheek gratefully, Sherlock’s expression a mix of relief and pleasant surprise. Surely he knew John has been in love all this time. If anyone knew, Sherlock Holmes had to have known.

John pecked a soft kiss where he could reach on Sherlock’s palm and smiled. “All this time, Sherlock. I mean it.” He couldn’t say the words, not with the nerves mingling in the space between them, not with Sherlock’s hand pressed to his cheek, other hand over his bare and bandaged side. It was as if they were the only two in the world, and John was terrified that if he said those three words, it would somehow shatter the spell the world was under.

Brushing his thumb over John’s cheek, Sherlock pulled John to him with timidity, giving him ample time to move away, to say no, to give any sign that Sherlock was not what he wanted with all of his being. But how could John say no to Sherlock?

They met for only a precious moment, lips gentle as if either might break the other. John was the first to move forward again, a longer kiss, then another, until leaning against Sherlock’s chair with one knee on the ground became uncomfortable.

Sherlock stood, beckoning for John to sit, then moving to sit halfway on his lap, kissing him again. John wrapped an arm around his back to keep him in place. It was once again as if one wrong move would break the spell, but John knew he wanted to tell Sherlock. He knew that he needed the man to hear those words, to know this was not a game or a one time only connection. John needed Sherlock to know that he was his beat friend, and also the man who had been a little bit in love with him since, “ _Afghanistan or Iraq_?”

“Sherlock...” he gasped, kisses becoming quicker and more desperate. “ _Sherlock_ , I-“ He was cut off by another frantic kiss and he lean backward only slightly, just enough to be out of Sherlock’s reach, and the hand not holding him in his lap made its way to Sherlock’s curls, eventually landing at the back of his neck with a thumb tucked behind his ear.

“Sherlock, I have to tell you.”

“John, I _know_ , you must know this is enough, I-“

“No, I want to say it. Sherlock Holmes, I love you.”

“And John Watson, I _have_ loved you. As long as I have known you, I have adored you. I have catalogued every moment, every memory, I know your smiles and your snores, I know your favorites and least favorites. I know you, John.”

John pulled Sherlock forward to kiss him again, smile never leaving his face.

“I may be the only man alive to truly know _you_ , Sherlock,” he replied with a breathy laugh.

Nodding with utmost seriousness, Sherlock said, “You are. You’re stubborn.”

John gave another laugh at this, and Sherlock smirked, pleased that he was able to hear that joyous sound. Sherlock carefully wrapped himself around John, one arm around his back and the other around his neck, holding him as tightly as was comfortable with the bandage over his ribs. John traced lines up and down the man’s back gently, aware of every place they were touching, how lucky he must be to have caught Sherlock’s eye.

Holding him close, John whispered into his hair, “I love you, Sherlock.”

Smile warm and content, Sherlock whispered back, “I love you, John.”

And it was so easy. As if the two had known all along that they loved one another, as if they had always been a pair. It would never be awkward, and it was likely that never again would the Detective and Doctor living in 221B be anything less than in love.

The two stayed there until Sherlock had nearly fallen asleep, then being helped to bed by John who was encouraged to stay and reprimanded firmly when he attempted to argue. “ _Oh_ ,  _ my ribs will be fine_.  _ Besides_,  _ what better position to be in when I’m injured than in bed with my doctor_.”

Another laugh from John and the two were in bed, John careful to press against him without disturbing his side and setting an alarm to wake up and change the bandages. Sherlock was fast asleep once John slung an arm around him, and John was quick to follow.

In his dream, John was kissing a dark haired roguishly handsome man, blue eyes piercing and love for him as true as John’s for him. And when he awoke, he kissed that man in real life too.

**Author's Note:**

> an old wip I transferred to my new phone and finished. probably didn’t do enough research on bullet wounds so take all that with a grain of salt. thank you for reading mwah


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